"No; a warning."
"Well, sir, I mean to do business along my own lines."
"I mean to do the same, Crothers, and I'd like to add, that in any clash please remember you are up against me—not Sandford Morley."
"I'm not likely to forget that, sir."
There was a little more talk, pro and con, and then the two men parted as men can do, after a heated and vital discussion, apparently on the best of terms.
It was the night of that day when, before the fire in the little sitting-room devoted to the Markhams' use, Levi sought to ease his sister's mind concerning Sandy.
"The boy was up against it with Crothers," he explained, "and making no outcry. You know Sandy's way. He wouldn't confide in us about that poor little sister of his—he thought it wasn't in the bargain. He meant to fight this big bully in his own fashion without calling on me, but I've taken a hand in the game and put Crothers wise as to principles. I may have to get a few knocks before I am done, but Sandy won't be the buffer. I guess the boy will pick up from now on. He's nervy and stronger than he looks."
Matilda sat in her low, broad rocker. Her dressing gown of pale violet enshrouded her tiny figure like the soft petals of a flower; her faded eyes and gentle face were lowered, and her gaze fixed upon the burning logs.
"Brother," she said tenderly and wistfully; "the boy has had a mortal hurt. This evil man has not dealt it, and neither you nor I can cure it. It has not killed his mind and spirit, but it's killed the heart of the lad."
Levi Markham got up and stood with his back to the fire. He was going to be enlightened—he knew that—but in man fashion he pushed the inevitable from him.